


i'll always be in love (if you win all our points)

by thestorykeller



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tennis, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Tennis, based off of a camp that i used to play at, it's kind of more of a, lmao what's new right, though grantaire still has that big ol' gay crush on enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 17:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17410976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestorykeller/pseuds/thestorykeller
Summary: Grantaire's a bored, washed-up college tennis player who spends his summers filling out forms and hitting with the kids at a tennis camp. Enjolras is the star of said camp.There are probably a lot of puns about love to be made here, but Grantaire somehow can't find any of them.





	i'll always be in love (if you win all our points)

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos appreciated :) find me on tumblr @thestorykeller

Grantaire doesn’t want to go to his job.

He says as much to Éponine, who’s lying next to him, and she rolls her eyes.

“Does it even really count as a job? It’s not like he’s paying you and to be honest, I don’t get why you’re still workin’ for him when he’s a sexist dickhead, who, again, isn’t paying you a fuckin’ cent. I say just walk out on ‘em and hang out with your friends -- ” 

\-- here she turns her head to the side and raises her eyebrows pointedly at Grantaire --

“ -- like the rest of us normal people who don’t give their entire fuckin’ lives to tennis.”

Grantaire rubs his eyes and frowns up at the ceiling. Sure, Tholomyès is kind of an ass, and he kinda hates the job itself, but it gives him something to do during the summer, and occasionally he gets to hit with the kids at the camp. And he’s confident enough in his own ability to admit that the kids at camp, some of them barely teenagers, are pretty damn good.

He checks his watch, which tells him that he has exactly five minutes to get his ass in gear and haul himself to the courts. 

Who cares if he doesn’t want to go, right? A job’s a job’s a job.

Even if he’s not getting paid.

Groaning, he rolls off of the bed, falling on top of a mountain of blankets that had somehow gotten there overnight and picks himself miserably back up onto his feet, scrambling to put his shoes on and leave the apartment. 

“Bye, fucker!” Éponine calls cheerfully after him. “Don’t forget to pick up Gavroche!”

Grantaire really doesn’t want to go to his job.

 

After thanking every deity that he knows of that he remembered to leave his bag in the car last night, he starts up the engine and heads to the courts.

He arrives with barely seconds to spare, grabs his bag, and sprints to the door, where he sees Tholomyès tapping his foot. 

Shit.

Grantaire reaches him and smiles a greeting, an immense effort considering it’s Tholomyès, but the other man doesn’t seem to notice, instead waving a gigantic stack of papers at him, agitated beyond belief.

Grantaire drops his smile immediately.

“I needed you half an hour ago!” Tholomyès says, brandishing the papers. “These forms still haven’t been looked over by anyone!”

Why me? Grantaire wonders bitterly, grabbing the forms out of Tholomyès’ hands and stalking towards the back of the compound, dropping unceremoniously into a metal fold-up chair, and bending his head over the work. 

An hour later, he rubs his eyes and glances up at the courts. His back aches. Tholomyès walks over, peering at the sheets in front of Grantaire, and nods in approval.

“Good, good. So, ah, is it alright if you hit in with the kids? Valjean wants Cosette to get some more practice with a heavy ball, and…”

Grantaire tunes out the rest of what he says, knowing that it’s not like he gets a choice in the matter, and gets up to stretch out his joints and muscles. It’ll be fun to hit with Cosette, he muses. She hits a light ball that seems unassuming at first glance, but runs him around like crazy. It’ll be good practice, since his footwork is shitty at best.

“... so, are you ready?” Tholomyès finishes, tilting his head towards Grantaire.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he says. “Which court should we play on?” 

“Court 6 -- you’re going to double up, since Enjolras and Combeferre are playing a match there already, and we want to keep the matches all around the same area.”

“Cool.” Turning around, Grantaire calls out to Cosette, “let’s go, lark! We’re playing on court 6!”

“Lemme finish this game, then I’ll join you,” the small girl responds. “I just gotta make it to level thirty-seven…” 

Tholomyès grunts, clearly annoyed, and shouts, “Cosette! Hurry up! We don’t have all day, you know!”

She sighs, affronted, puts her phone down, and grabs her racket.“Yeah,” she mutters under her breath, out of Tholomyès’ hearing range but well within Grantaire’s, who struggles to choke down a laugh, frowning at her lunch box, “Except, like, we do.”

They walk over to Court 6, bickering good-naturedly. 

Enjolras and Combeferre seem to have just finished their game; they’re sitting next to each other on one of the benches and discussing something in low tones. 

Grantaire throws his water bottle onto the other bench and jogs onto the court, giving them a curious glance and wondering what the two are talking about -- something about the mistreatment of female tennis players, no doubt; after all, Enjolras is one of those beautiful, rousing, idealistic types -- angry on behalf of the world. And he did just overhear Tholomyès say something derogatory about Musichetta, because, to quote Éponine, Tholomyès is a sexist dickhead.

Balls litter the ground on the court, and Grantaire throws an annoyed glance over his shoulder towards the duo, thoughts about Enjolras’ idealism quickly disappearing in favor of irateness -- couldn’t they have bothered to at least clear some balls, so he doesn’t have to run the risk of spraining his ankle every time he even takes a fucking step? -- as he quickly picks the most dangerous balls up and hits them over to Cosette --

\-- who is tying her shoes and doesn’t see the incoming balls. Oops.

She looks up when the first one hits her back, just in time for another one to hit her face. She reels back, clutching her nose. The only thing Grantaire can see is a smattering of blood.

Shit, he thinks.

“I’m so sorry Cosette are you okay Jesus fuck do you need ice or something -- “

Combeferre, who’s closest to her, scrambles out of his seat and rushes over. 

“Can I see your nose, please?”

She nods and takes her hand away, absentmindedly rubbing it on her shorts and staining them red. 

After inspecting her nose carefully while Grantaire stands by, worriedly peeking at her, Combeferre announces that everything is fine and it’s just a bloody nose. 

Grantaire runs off immediately and comes back with a box of tissues, which Cosette takes one look at and starts sniggering. 

“Honestly, dude, an entire box is a li’l much. I mean, like, look, it’s almost gone.”

“Yeah, but -- “

“It’s fine, whatever. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

Enjolras suddenly speaks up, the first time Grantaire’s heard him do so in this entire mess.

“Sorry, Cosette, but Tholomyès is going to be in here as soon as Combeferre leaves you to your own devices, to yell at us to play, so… we better get going.”

Cosette waves a hand and smiles as best as she can through the gigantic wad of tissues pressed to her nose (“an entire box is a bit much”, my ass, Grantaire thinks). 

“Go ahead. I’m completely fine, y’all don’t need to be fussing over me nearly this much. It’s just a nosebleed, for God’s sake.”

Enjolras smiles apologetically and rises, gesturing for Combeferre to join him. They head out onto the court and resume their match, while Grantaire sits next to Cosette and, panic largely forgotten, entertains her with the story of that one time Ép got drunk and married herself off to a Charmander plushie.

She laughs, pats at her nose for a second, and stands up. 

“I think it’s all right now, we’re good to go. Lemme just put this box of tissues away so we can play.”

“Cool beans,” Grantaire says, lounging on the bench. He turns his eyes to the Enjolras/Combeferre match and watches critically as they hit. 

Enjolras is mesmerizing as his brow furrows, all of his laser-sharp focus on the ball and the ball only. From this angle, Grantaire can acknowledge that all those people who like to moon over him when they take water breaks have a point. 

He is very pretty, after all.

Cosette appears behind him, nudging him and grinning. 

“Ready to play?” she asks, and leaning down, “or are you too busy staring at Enj?”

Grantaire shoves her away, and stands up, cheeks burning. Thank god he’s brown, he thinks to himself -- he doesn’t need the world to know that okay, maybe, just maybe, he’s one of those people who moons over Enjolras during water breaks. 

But not very much, alright. 

Just a little.

(His idealism is cute, okay? And he is too.)

 

He’s in the middle of a very intense match with Cosette (he’s up five - love, but he’s getting a good workout and Cosette is definitely much better than she was before and giving him a hard time of it, so…) when Enjolras coughs quietly next to him on the bench.

“Hmm?” Grantaire manages with a mouthful of water, raising his eyebrows questioningly. 

“Uh, this might not be the best time to bring this up, but I kinda need a hitting partner?...” his voice trails off into silence.

Grantaire swallows, then raises his eyebrows again.

“And of everyone in this camp, you decided that I was your best bet?” 

His incredulity must’ve shown in his voice, because Enjolras looks kind of defiant, thick golden eyebrows drawn together, and says, “Well, I already asked Feuilly, and Courfeyrac, and Combeferre, and all of them have too much work and not enough time over the summer. Plus, you are the best player in camp.”

“Flattered, thanks. And that might have something to do with the fact that I spent my teen years in a tennis training school, yeah? Anyway, totally, I can do it. It’s not like I have any other plans.” 

Enjolras looks relieved.

“Thank goodness. Valjean tells me that I could be so much better if I hit more often, and honestly, I trust Valjean’s opinion over Tholomyès’, considering Tholomyès is an ass.”

Grantaire gives a surprised laugh, and says, “Well, yeah, everyone here knows that. I think him giving us a five minute water break rather than a two minute one was the nicest thing I’ve ever seen him do, no?”

That makes Enjolras laugh, which Grantaire feels a rush of pride at, and respond, “I know, right?” and in a lower voice, add, “speak of the devil, you better get going with Cosette. We’ll discuss the details later?”

The girl in question is talking happily with Combeferre, and looks up when her name is said out loud. 

 

Grantaire smiles lopsidedly at her, and gestures over his shoulder. 

“Let’s go, girl. You still gotta try to beat me -- emphasis on try.”

Cosette springs up immediately, her competitive nature perking up its ears.

“You wanna go, R?” 

“You’re on, Fauche.”

 

They shake hands twenty minutes later, Grantaire trying and failing to hide a grin under a his “I’m a serious competitor” face. 

“Mark another one down for R!” he crows the second they get off the court. “That’s a four set streak!”

Cosette frowns at him exaggeratedly, and says slyly, “Well, I got two games on the best player in camp, so I’m gonna mark that down as a win, myself.”

The way she says “the best player in camp” makes it obvious that she’s quoting Enjolras, and Grantaire’s cheeks burn. He smiles, a genuine one for once.

He’s worked his ass off since twelve years old, and it’s nice to hear someone other than Éponine acknowledge it. The fact that it’s Enjolras? An even bigger plus.

They head towards the shaded desk (that still, Grantaire notes a little bitterly, has the forms that he was looking over an hour ago) to record their score with Valjean. 

Coach Valjean is one of the best coaches in the area and Grantaire is constantly envious of Cosette for having him as her private coach. And he’s the nicest person Grantaire’s ever met. Honestly. Who gave him the right?

Valjean looks up from the Tennis Bible, as Courfeyrac has affectionately dubbed it, and grins at them. 

“Hello, Cosette, Grantaire. Back so soon?”

She nods, corners of her mouth turning up. “Not that soon, Coach, c’mon. I got two games on him when he was up five - love, so I’m counting it as a win.”

Valjean laughs, and after confirming the score 6 to 2, notes it in the Bible, among the dozens of other match outcomes already recorded. 

“It is, let’s see,” trailing off, he checks his watch, “12:56, so you guys can just hang tight and maybe -- “ here, he pauses and gives a significant look to Cosette, who’s looking longingly at her neglected phone -- “pick up some balls until the end of class.”

Cosette, who obviously didn’t pick up on the entirely unsubtle hint he’d just made, nods politely and immediately makes a beeline for her bag, picking her phone up and resuming what Grantaire assumes is Candy Crush. Valjean shakes his head fondly and shrugs at Grantaire. 

“If that girl put half as much effort into crushing shots like she crushes candies…”

Grantaire grins. 

Cosette calls without looking up from her phone, “I heard that, Coach!”

Oops, Valjean mouths to him.

 

After cleaning up the courts, Grantaire is about ready to go home and nap for hours, but Enjolras catches him just as he’s about to walk off. 

“So, uh, about that hitting thing…”

Grantaire rubs his eyes, looks at Enjolras for a second, and nods decisively. 

“Look, I really wanna get home to sleep, my schedule is wonky so I dunno about figuring something out that really consistently works, so the best course of action is just to text me later and we can figure something out then. When I’m not, like, ready to pass out.”

Enjolras is already pulling out his phone. He holds his hand out for Grantaire’s phone, and says briskly, “All right. Swap.”

Grantaire fumbles around in his pocket, taking out his already beaten-up phone and narrowly missing dropping it on the ground again. He unlocks it, and hands it over to Enjolras, who promptly gives his phone to Grantaire and punches in his phone number. 

To be very honest, Grantaire’s not quite sure if he’s even remembering his own number correctly, but he hunches over and dutifully puts what he thinks it is in. 

His efforts are for nothing, because Enjolras takes his phone back (with Grantaire’s number in it, Grantaire can die happy) and says, “Okay, now text me.”

“Smart,” he says out loud, and taps out a message to Enjolras (The Tennis Guy). 

[1:03] Grantaire: hey

Enjolras’ phone dings, and he frowns at it for a second, turning the screen around. 

[1:03] Unknown: hey

“This isn’t from the number you put in,” he says, and Grantaire groans internally. He really needs to memorize his own phone number. 

But he laughs, a little awkwardly, and takes Enjolras’ phone again. 

“Oops, sorry. Maybe I accidentally hit the wrong number -- god knows it’s happened enough,” he says, in an effort to make Enjolras think it was just a mistake and not that his memory is bad enough that he doesn’t even have his own number down.

He’s probably overthinking this.

No, he’s definitely overthinking this. He steers his mind away from that topic and focuses on fixing his contact info on Enjolras’ phone. When he’s done, he salutes the blond boy with a “text you later” and turns around, whistling as he heads to his car. 

Revving it up, he zooms past the courts, heading home before he curses and reverses direction to the soccer field near the middle school.

When he gets there, Gavroche is already standing out front, twirling a pen lazily in a manner scarily reminiscent of Montparnasse, which Grantaire shudders at. 

"Forgot about me, didja?" he asks jokingly, catching the pen in his hand and shuffling towards Grantaire's car. 

"Hey, you're very forgettable, dude, what can I say?" Grantaire fires teasingly back at the twelve year old, waiting for him to get in. 

After Gavroche jumps in, heaving his hulking soccer bag in after him, Grantaire starts up the car again and careens out of the parking area, heading home (for real) now.

The boy next to him groans, "Could you try to not drive like a total madman for once in your life, dude?" 

Grantaire says, affronted, “I’m the only ride you’ve got, so unless you wanna stop talking, the door’s that way." He gestures towards the massive, gloomy forest next to the speeding car and shrugs. “Your choice.”

Gavroche, predictably, does not shut up, but Grantaire is distracted by the ding of his phone, which Gavroche snatches up and announces, "Hey, who's Enjolras?"

"The Tennis Guy, Gavroche," Grantaire says. "Read the parentheses. Now give me my goddamn phone back. And don't tell Ép I said that in front of you." 

Gavroche's about to argue, but Grantaire takes the opportunity of being at a red light and lunges at him, grabbing it. Somewhat reluctantly, Gavroche gives it up in favor of fiddling with a Rubik's cube, dug out from the bottom of his soccer bag. 

[1: 17] Enjolras (The Tennis Guy): are you free tomorrow after camp? 1:30-2:30?

Grantaire doesn't even realize he's smiling before Gavroche points it out.


End file.
